


Absinthe

by awkwardeye



Series: Baise-Moi [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, F/M, POV First Person, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardeye/pseuds/awkwardeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo considers a love gone sour<br/>Rated M for a vague description of sex and some slightly disturbing thoughts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absinthe

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with another depressing oneshot. Listening to halsey and the 1975 makes me sentimental.

“the Devil’s hand directs our every move-

the things we loathed become the things we love”

* * *

 

Picture this: two lovers in a cramped box always moving around and never quite meeting each other’s eyes. They speak, but not to each other. The only time they address each other is when their voices rise and catch on the roof of this cramped box and in the aftermath they find themselves entangled, twisted ropes unravelling quickly. The lovers fall into indifference, romance is plagued by absence. That is what we are, but tonight I listen to her because she’s hardly saying anything.

She tells me to put my right hand on my left shoulder, to put my left hand on my right hip, to bend my neck and let my head hang, twist my body slightly to left. No, forget it, shift only my hips to the left. And I listen to her, follow her words only because there’s nothing like obedience shrouded in clarity.

I don’t know what’s in my glass; I only know that I feel it sliding down my throat like beads of condensation down the smooth, cool surface of a glass on a hot day. I feel her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, pushing it aside, and then I feel her lip rouge sticking to my skin: thick, smooth. Every timid breeze carried by the oscillating fan by the door hits me like the winds of a hurricane. The whir of the blades chopping the air sounds impossibly loud, almost loud enough to drown her voice out.

We are lovers in the absence of romance. Idle things tethered by a few words and kisses and misguided trust, we’re waiting for the love story to propel us into the craze of passion so great we feel the need to dip our fingers in ink and write it on the walls, to paint portraits of each other that people centuries from now will look upon in awe and call masterpieces to rival Degas, Bouguereau, with the sort of near reality that channels Redon, Dali. We will write of infatuation so twisted we will shake the remains of de Sade. We will write poetry so fraught with heartbreak that we will freeze Frost.

The clicking of her camera fills the lull between songs and conversation seeping in through the window. The walls shake as a train rumbles by deafening in its motion. And I don’t speak. I simmer, working my way up to boil as I always do. She tells me to turn my head and this time, I don’t listen. Her camera clicks away anyway, softer than he irritated sigh. The apartment fills with cigarette smoke and then silence.

“I don’t love you anymore,” she says.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, turning quickly, too quickly and I feel the floor shift beneath my feet.

She lets me fall and then lay on the floor with my cheek pressed against her favorite rug. Seeming to hesitate, she shifts from foot to foot before refilling my glass and sitting down on the floor beside me. Sober, she’s not seeing as clearly as I am, not thinking as quickly as I am, not seeing that we’re moving and not nearly as still as she thinks we are. Not at a standstill, we’re crawling along in this love.

If I ever caught a bird, I would pluck its feathers one by one. Then I would dangle it out of the window and watch it flap its pathetic, bare wings. I would watch it fall to the ground twisting and turning and chirping with all of its energy and I would close my eyes right before it hit the cold concrete and split its fragile white skull and I would imagine its neck broken and bent before I allowed myself to compare my imagination to reality. But I’ll never catch a bird.

The only bird I’ve caught is her and I can’t say with confidence that she isn’t the one plucking my feathers while I take an axe to her pretty neck. Try flying headless, try flying without me. She needs me and that is why it is absolutely necessary that she dulls me with this liquid clarity while she immortalizes me behind a curved lens.

She thinks I don’t know what she’s been doing, but I know her as well as I know myself. I know when the door closes where she goes for I am forever caught on the hem of her skirt watching her life with much more clarity than her. That’s why she’s bleeding; because I know what she’s been doing to me and I don’t want her to think she controls me. I control her. Yes, that’s why she’s sinking down beside me to the floor, drawing her fingers across my skin, kissing these palms that have rained down on her so lightly before these pale fingers of mine whittled themselves down to aching claws.

She’s distancing herself like I’m some sort of disease. It’s not her fault; she tried and I lashed out. And she’s smart, so she’s begun to undo this knotted cordage and now we hang idly by our snapping necks. It’s in these moments with her lips pressed everywhere but upon mine, that I tangle my fingers in her hair and accept with a begrudging sort of sadness (because anger never prevails in the moments of clarity) that she wants what I can give on one end of the spectrum and none of what I want to give on the other. Lust, she wants no more of my love because she’s tired of having to get me drunk to have a good time without the sadist.

I promised myself years ago I would never fall in love. I always thought I couldn’t, but here I lay with her breasts pressed against my chest and her warmth enveloping me, and I cling tightly to her with a pounding heart that still knows and loves her in the haze of this clarity.

Pain is a path to pleasure, though, and there’s no harm in pleasure.


End file.
